Five Times Morgana Drags Merlin Into Their Nook
by brickroad16
Summary: See title. Inspired by the 'nook' scenes from 1.13 and 3.02. Apparently Morgana is fond of dragging Merlin into alcoves, and this story fills in the blanks.


Disclaimer: I still don't own _Merlin_.

A/N: Don't worry, _Chuck _readers: a _Collide _chapter is coming very, very soon. Cross my heart. Also, _huge _thanks to **wickedinsanity**, because her chats always give me new ideas for stories! This one came from one of her comments on the latest episode. :)

* * *

She's never had a dream so terrifying.

Arthur knows exactly what to say to rile her, can set off her temper with just a look, has been the royal pain in her backside ever since she was twelve years old. But he's also the closest thing she has to a brother, and she would go to unfathomable lengths to protect the king he was born to be.

So when she dreams of his death by the questing beast, it's enough to shock her into hysteria. Whatever Gaius, for all his medical expertise, says, she knows the nightmares she's been plagued with since childhood are not simple dreams.

But no one will listen. No one will hear. She is a modern-day Cassandra, blowing her lungs out as she yells futilely at the deaf.

She stands in a deserted corridor, watching the bustle in the courtyard below as servants and citizens do what they can to help their prince, fallen ill from the beast's venom. As a dark-haired servant passes through and jogs up the steps, a thought suddenly strikes her.

_Merlin_.

He may have pushed her away at Arthur's beck, but it's always been Merlin lurking in the shadows when Arthur's found seemingly inescapable trouble. And yet, not only does the prince manage to escape, sometimes with barely his life, but so does his clumsy manservant who's much more suited to a broom than a sword. He is either very lucky, or there is much more to him than meets the eye. Either way, he may be the one person who will listen, the one compassionate ear close enough to Arthur to make a difference.

With this thought - and maybe the vision of his eyes - swimming in her head, she waits for him in an abandoned alcove, a lioness stalking her prey. She lies in wait for a long while before he and his guardian waltz by, and, luckily for her, the old man doesn't take note of how her hand shoots out of the archway to grasp the younger man's sleeve.

It's rough brown wool, the jacket he always wears. She feels the scratchy threads beneath the soft pads of her fingers, and it's this, always this, bringing her back to reality after a nigh-debilitating night of terror. This connection, however brief, has oftentimes been the only thing to assure her that she is not, in fact, going insane.

Though she feels insane at this moment.

"Please, Merlin, you must beware. This is only the beginning."

She can still see Arthur's death, as if it were happening right in front of her. A feeling of uselessness wells up inside of her, threatening to burst, preventing her from saying all the things she needs to say.

So she stares at Merlin, stares at those blue eyes, and hopes he understands.

And then he tears his arm away, gives her one last look, and disappears down the corridor.

* * *

"Have you got it?"

Merlin, a grin lighting up his pale face, nods as she pulls him into the alcove and holds out a rectangular package. Her enthusiasm bubbles over just from looking at him. She wants to do something special for Gwen's birthday next week, but it's been difficult to get a moment out of her handmaiden's sight, especially in the market place. Therefore, she's enlisted Merlin to purchase some fine purple muslin they'd noticed Gwen admiring the previous week and hire a seamstress to sew a new dress. The poor handmaiden is so inundated with work that she rarely has time to keep up with her own clothes, which have consequently become patchy and worn-looking since her father's death. If Morgana's gift can provide a respite from work, then she takes pleasure in that.

The package is squishy in her hands, and she can just imagine how soft the finished product is.

"What does it look like? Is it satisfactory?" she asks.

"Yes, it's beautiful."

"And she'll like it?"

"I'm certain of it."

Morgana smiles. "Then thank you, Merlin. I couldn't have done this without you."

He dips his head, a blush rising to his pale cheeks, and rubs the back of his neck in embarrassment. "It's the least I can do," he shrugs. "Besides, Gwen deserves it."

"She does," Morgana agrees quietly.

"Well," Merlin says, shyly lifting his gaze, "is there anything else, milady?"

She hates when he calls her that. After all, they're _friends_, are they not? But instead of challenging him, she replies, "Yes. Gwen loves flowers, and, if you could distract her for a little while that morning, I'd like to go out and pick her a bundle. Would that be all right?"

"Of course," he nods, as if a request from the royal ward weren't something he had to obey. "If there's nothing else . . ."

She wishes she could think of a reason for him to stay, but she's already stolen too much of his time. He has duties, chores to be getting on with. She shakes her head, and he sneaks back into the corridor.

Already regretting her decision to let him go, she takes a step out and calls, "Merlin?"

He turns, at the ready to fulfill her next desire.

But she only smiles and says, "Thank you. You're a good friend."

Merlin grins at her before resuming his walk down the hall.

* * *

She loves this time of year, always has, loves the chill in the air, the blanket of white that settles upon the city, the mirth that sparkles in people's eyes. Boundaries between master and servant, between royal and commoner, dissolve during this season. People from all walks of life let their walls drop in order to celebrate together, although she's always had Gwen, and it's never occurred to her to socialize with anyone else. She's always had her eye on knights, nobles, the younger sons of royalty; it's never before crossed her mind to let her gaze wander towards the servants.

But then Merlin showed up. Since he arrived in Camelot in the spring, he's brought an unusual sort of brightness to her bleary world. Even now, his cheerfulness spreads through the castle, from the smiles she sees on his fellow servants' faces to the sprigs of holly, evergreen, even mistletoe that he's taken it upon himself to hang in the archways.

Wrapped in a fine plush cloak, she makes her way upstairs to wait for him. The air smells of winter, and her heart is pulsing with anticipation. Unless she's mistaken, he comes through this way each and every day, at the same time, on his laundry rounds. Her footsteps resound on the stone floor as she sneaks into their nook, notices with a smile the spray of mistletoe hanging crookedly above her head.

It's but a moment before she hears him rounding the corner, hears his grumble as he trips over his feet. With every step he takes closer to her, breathing becomes more difficult, until he's passing the alcove opening, and she's pulling him into the secluded recess almost without thinking. His eyes open wide in surprise, and his laundry basket clatters to the floor, its contents spilling out onto the stones.

She doesn't give him any time to react before she pushes him gently against the wall, raises herself onto her tiptoes, and plants her lips on his. At first, his body is tense under touch, but then, as if he suddenly realizes what is happening, he sinks into her, tentatively resting a shaking hand on her hip. His lips are cracked and dry from the winter air, but, even beyond the spiced mead and sunlight on his tongue, he tastes realer than any boy she's ever kissed.

When she breaks away from him, he stares at her - mouth hanging open slightly, chest heaving, eyebrows nearly disappearing beneath his fringe of bangs. And she stares right back, utterly taken aback by what has just transpired.

How blind she has been this entire time! There is a passion hidden deep with him, deep within this invisible, unassuming servant boy, and the discovery of it has knocked the breath from her lungs.

An echo of footsteps and clanking of chainmail pulls them both back to the earth with a violent tug, reminds them of the social stigma dividing them. He clears his throat nervously as he stoops down to pick up the scattered linens. As she leans down to assist him, she can see Sir Robert, Sir Duncan, and two of their squires approaching from the opposite end of the corridor.

Merlin's hands are trembling as he hastily replaces the laundry into the basket, and he's careful to avoid her touch. When the task is quickly finished, he jumps to his feet, load in arms.

"Yes, well, um, thank you . . . milady."

By now, the knights have reached them.

Sir Duncan greets her with a nod of his head and a booming, "Goode'en, milady!"

She inclines her head politely. "Goode'en, Sir Duncan."

His gaze flickers over to Merlin, over his servant's attire and his servant's burden. Dismissively, he turns back to Morgana and says, "If the lady is finished here, I would be happy to escort you."

"Thank you for the kind offer, Sir Duncan," she replies with a sweet smile, "but my destination lies in the opposite direction."

"It is a misfortune indeed to be deprived of your company."

Chuckling, she bids him and his party goodbye before turning back to her companion. "Happy Christmas, Merlin," she tells him.

And she strolls down the hallway, trying to calm her racing heart, an unabashed grin gracing her fair features. As she traipses down the stairs, she raises her fingers to her lips in an effort to decipher reality from imagination.

* * *

She's never been one to hide her emotions; that's always been her undoing. And when she confronts Merlin about the mandrake root and his escape from the serkets, she's furious, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him roughly into the alcove.

He says nothing, simply faces her with his mouth agape. She's prepared for the fear in his eyes, craves it even, but not for the pity. But then she remembers the feeling of the poison as it constricted her lungs, remembers the desperate need for air, and she pushes past the misgiving in her heart.

"I don't know how you managed to escape," she seethes. "But I do know one thing: if you breathe a word of what you saw, I will make your life a very short and painful one."

She barely gives him a chance to speak, because she _cannot_ listen to his words. Out of everyone in her acquaintance, Merlin is the only one who would be able to convince her to give this up. But he doesn't understand how deep this runs, why she needs this so very badly. He doesn't understand how much his betrayal has torn up her soul.

"Just think how Uther would react if he learnt that a servant boy had tried to poison his beloved ward."

Still, he says nothing, though she's uncertain if it's because he's truly scared of her or because he underestimates her. She wants to shake him, wants to frighten a reaction out of him, hates this chess game between them. With one last threatening glance, she stalks away, certain of his eyes on her as she saunters down the corridor.

It's his move now, and she and her sister intend to be ready for it.

* * *

They're older now, but somehow not as wise as they once were. She sometimes feels as if they've lost their sense of self, no longer know who they are or what they're fighting for. Things were so much simpler when there was a clear division between noble-born and common, not the blurry boundary that now exists between trustworthy and untrustworthy, ally and foe, good and evil.

Shrouded by a dark cloak, she sneaks into the castle like she used to. But this time there's a celebration going on - for one of Arthur's _noble_ achievements, no doubt - and the revelers are too preoccupied by their good cheer to spare her a glance.

She knows Merlin, though, knows he never stays very long at those feasts. Even as the king's advisor and the most powerful sorcerer Camelot has ever seen, he is broken. His days are filled with the glory of battle, or the pride of their new kingdom, but his nights are consumed by remorse. It's written in his posture as he shuffles down the corridor, and she takes advantage of his exhaustion and misery to take hold of his sleeve and pull him, gently this time, into their nook.

She lets her fingers linger around his wrist as he leans against the wall and rests his eyes on hers.

"Morgana," he greets softly, unsurprised.

He still looks the same as he ever did - untidy black hair, blazing blue eyes, slight but strong frame - but there's worry, fatigue etched into his face. She wonders what he sees in her now, if he detects her differences as she detects his. She hates to admit that her self-worth could ever rest upon a man's opinion of her, but at night, when she has difficulty sleeping, it occurs to her that she may not have fallen into the mistakes that she did if only he had been there for her, if only he hadn't taken it upon himself to raise Arthur's destiny above hers. Because when it comes down to it, when the choice is between her and Arthur, he will always choose the Once and Future King, leaving her to fade into oblivion.

She regards him sadly, suddenly overwhelmed by the sense that they've wasted their short, meaningless lives. There are mere inches between them, yet a lifetime of regret divides them. She has so much to say to him; shame has tied her tongue.

"What are you doing here?"

What _has_ she come for? The redemption he constantly denies her? A nagging restlessness sits in her soul, telling her she deserves another chance for every mistake made by the infallible Merlin. And yet she's been given no second chance, has instead been condemned for past, youthful failings.

She used to think he cared for her. Maybe he did, once, or deluded himself into believing so. But someone who cared for her would never have let her suffer as she has suffered, would never have stood by silently as her pain twisted into hatred.

Her bottom lip quivers as she opens her mouth to speak. "I don't know," she admits. "I don't know why I came."

With a sigh, he leans forward and tangles his fingers into her hair, and a shock of warmth runs through her at the familiarity of his touch. It's been so long since she's felt anything beyond a bitter numbness. After years of swearing her indifference to him, he proves her lie in just a fragile moment, steals the breath from her lungs as he dips his head to capture her lips.

He's warm, and real, and sturdy, almost comforting. He tastes of ale and youth, and stirs something buried deep inside of her, a lost dream longing for life. The hope threaded into his kiss makes her want to drop all arms and declare a truce right here and now in this dim alcove.

But he's always had a way of making her desire the impossible.

A firm palm against his chest, she pushes him away.

"Then why did you come, if not for peace?" he asks in a low, whispered rush, a frown gracing his lips. "Morgana, we can set this right."

She shakes her head. "We cannot erase years simply because we wish it."

He stands up straighter, swallowing thickly as he holds her steely gaze. "Say it then," he challenges.

"You abandoned me."

There's a long moment of silence, during which laughter and singing and shouting can be heard from the lower levels of the castle, before he gives a slight nod. Huskily, he confesses, "I know."

She had half-expected him to try to apologize, even though they both know by now that no apology will ever be enough.

Lifting her hand from his chest, she shakes her head and repeats, "I don't know why I came here."

Before he can protest, she raises her hood and strolls out into the deserted corridor. He stops her, his fingers sliding around her wrist to pull her back to him.

"I always loved you," he murmurs.

But it's too late.

She doesn't lift her eyes from the stones beneath their feet as she replies, "That may be true, but never as I deserved."

And she wrenches her arm free and walks away from him, hoping this will not be the last time they meet peacefully. There's a heavy chill hanging in the autumnal night air, and she has to suck in a breath. The end is hurtling towards them, she can feel it now. She wonders if he knows they will not all survive the turning of the year.


End file.
